Of Brimstone And Fire
by The Coolest Man
Summary: A dead god, lost to eternal ages. A mortal man, driven by unending greed. Together, their reach will grow beyond the stars.
1. Advocate

**I don't own anything of the Mortal Kombat universe except my own creations. All credits go towards Netherrealm Studios.**

* * *

Enveloping darkness formed all around him. It was an absolute horror to endure. Every agonising second of balancing between existence and non-existence, every second of clinging onto some kind of consciousness. As if absolute dread surged through his body. Luckily, he was prepared. He didn't go in expecting a fun roller coaster with neon lights and jazz music playing somewhere in the background. No cosy boat ride on the lazy river, no exhilarating jump into a cavern lake. No, it was absolute torture to get through.

He could feel his bones burn, his skin boil as he fell through the planes of Hell. Not really unexpected, but definitely still an awful feeling to experience. The planes of this realm swooshed by as his fall accelerated, showing less and less, the planes becoming a blur of pestilence and plagues, shadows and spectres, flames and fumes. With a massive thud, he crashed down upon the coldest sands he had ever felt, sending goosebumps all over his body. He arched his back, tensing his muscles to ease the pain before pushing himself up, his hands sinking away slightly in the dead sands. His eyes fell upon the bright sky, remarkable golden, the sun perfectly perpendicular to the desert.

He saw, far in the distance, a keep of monumental proportions, the dark stone consuming all light from the sun. Yet despite its intensity, the sun could not heat skin and sand, nor brick and bone. It was something extraordinary to experience. Something that so little people could actually appreciate. Not that they could, for Hell did not accept those pure of heart and strong of mind. Usually.

His trek didn't last longer than what felt like half an hour, his leather shoes collecting sand and scratches as he marched over the faint hills. He did still have his watch, a sleek minimalistic design, but in this plane, he questioned its reliability. From what he could see, no other tracks could be found, no behemoths stampeding through the plains of sand, no critters skittering about. Perhaps the expired winds had blown them away, perhaps the plane had been abandoned to the ages, forgotten as its relevance decayed.

He came up to the keep, fishing his comb from his back pocket, pulling back his coal black hair, keeping it taut but dusty. He put it away, admiring the architecture of the keep, the archways carved with stories of old conquests and cunning atrocities. It reminded him somewhat of the Gothic movement, with the tall spires and massive glass panes, each pane a fantastic rainbow of colours. After remaining lost in thought for a minute, he strolled up to the massive double doors, standing at the very least three times taller than himself. When he pushed them, open, he could feel their sheer weight, the cold iron leaving their smell on his palms. No mortal could have pushed them open with just their strength.

He marched through the great hall, the tapestry perished by the invincible grip of time, the carpet robbed of colour, now just a grey mass of yarn. Mirrors dotted the walls every now and so, staring into his own eyes, his sclerae a bottomless dark, his ires a vibrant crimson. His brows were still thick, his eyes still sunken deep, his grin still as broad as a barn.

He found another double door, leading to the throne room, the space littered with skeletons and empty seats, tables covered with platters and cups, yet no succulence could be found, no feast to be had. The chandeliers had lost their great shine, now a dull iron with unused candles, their burn extinguished. Once again, the great glass panes proved remarkably eye-catching, the only things that have bested time, always drawing his sight to them.

Somewhere in the back, a throne the size of a car stood, with a great skeleton occupying it. The claws had embedded themselves deep in the armrests, his feet had been buried in sand, his magnificent attire now a tattered relic of lost power. The frame was hunched over, the horned skull showing nothing of its visage. He walked up to it, pulling out a cigar from his breast pocket. Even from yards away, he could feel the heat, the mythic arcane radiating through his soul. He stepped towards the throne, the god of brimstone and ash still firmly seated in his black iron throne. His heart began racing, his blood began cooking, his bones bore the great flame.

Pressing his cigar on the skeleton, it lit up, and he took one deep pull from it, puffing out rings of smoke from his nose. He kneeled in front of the skeleton, coming up on eye-level to see any sort of activity, any sign of ambition left in this artefact. After he finished the rest of his cigar, he tossed the butt away, adjusted his ddark grey sleeveless suit jacket and spoke.

" _Hello, my good sir,"_ he began, his voice raspy and deep, _"and please, allow me to introduce myself."_

The skeleton began expelling ash and smoke, darker than any smoke he had seen in his life.

" _I am Solomon King, a man of former wealth and taste,"_ he continued, his grin growing to his ears, _"and I have a proposition for you."_

From within the three pairs of eye sockets, deep ruby orbs glowed, finally revealing some of the dark skull, graced with thick fangs and strong cheekbones.

" _I have read much about you,"_ the man of wealth carried on his proposal, _"from your inception to your very unfortunate demise."_

A throaty hum rumbled the keep, rubble and grit raining down upon Solomon's white blouse, his sleeves rolled up to let his muscled arms breathe.

" _Perhaps you could accept it to be my partner in crime,"_ the man of taste resumed, and the throaty rumble turned into a reluctant groan, _"An alliance to achieve our goals."_

The groan had grown silent, and the sharply dressed man adjusted his tie for this moment of tranquillity.

" _I'd like to see both out ambitions realised, you see?"_ Solomon said, his grin never fading, _"So what do you say…"_

The smoke and ash began encompassing the mortal man, the vapour and ashen flakes seeping through his skin, stoking his veins, tantalising his nerves, hardening his bones.

"… _Diablo?"_

* * *

 _knock knock, open up the door, it's real_

 _Wit the non-stop, pop pop and stainless steel_

So inbetween my much larger story, I'm going to keep up my writing spirit by writing this shorter, more condensed story. If you like it, sub to my Twitch Fortnite channel and donate to my Patr3on.

\- The Coolest Man on the North Pole


	2. Cuisine

**I don't own anything of the Mortal Kombat universe except my own creations. All credits go towards Netherrealm Studios.**

* * *

The torrent outside had been raging on for hours, like sharp fingernails tapping on the window, the single birch tree outside soaked in rain. The fireplace had been refreshed at least once, a crucial miscalculation on his own part, figuring the wood would burn a bit longer. The television had been on for a while, news flashing by every once or twice, with Prague receiving much of the screen time, along with some local feel-good news, like baby seals being born in a zoo somewhere.

He didn't rally care for the war, or the seals. He was more interested in his pizza he had ordered a while ago, his stomach rumbling, his lips moistened by hunger. Of course, he could have also easily prepared some delicious rare steak, but currently, he was much too lazy to actually get up and do something. He wasn't even wearing a shirt of all things, but he did wear some nice pants.

His doorbell rang, and his gut roared. He managed to lift himself from his couch and stroll up to the door, scrounging together all the spare dollars he could get. Up to the door, he could see the young fellow through the peep-hole, soaked by the storm, shivering from the cold, holding the pizza in his hands. He opened the door and the youngster's face lit up.

"Goodnight sir," he said, "you ordered a pepperoni pizza?"

"Yeah," Solomon replied, and the kid handed over the box.

"That'll be thirteen dollars and fifty cents, please," he said, and the shirtless man handed him a little bit over the total amount.

"Here, kid," Solomon gave him a stack of dollar bills, "and keep the change."

"Thank you, sir," he said jovially, his face plastered with a big smile, "and have a good meal."

"Thanks," he replied, "and goodnight."

The delivery guy turned around, and the shirtless man did the same, but he heard a voice from behind him, a woman by the sound of it.

"Excuse me, sir?" she called, "Sir, could you hold open the door, please?"

Solomon turned back around to see the delivery man just avoid the girl, who was hidden by a pair of boxes. Fairly large boxes, too.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," she said, and the lazy man chuckled at her formality, "but I have some boxes for you. Solomon King, right?"

"Yeah," he acknowledged, "From who?" he asked, and she slightly rotated to show the name of the sender.

Andrew King, his uncle. He wondered what he would even send to him, save his grandfather clock, which Solomon had claimed when he was nine. He placed his big pizza on the kitchen counter before talking to the girl.

"Let me take them," he said, and the girl handed over the boxes. She was clearly struggling to hold them up, her legs shaking, but he picked them up, barely breaking a sweat. He stationed them next to the door and looked back up to see the girl snatch a clipboard from somewhere, shielding it from the downpour.

He got a good look on the girl from his position, and suffice to say, she looked pretty. A petite nose, short hazelnut hair and big, blue eyes managed to catch his eye, and her frame matched her face, petite but noticeable. He also caught sight of her hand, for it had a scar running down the length of it.

"Sign here, and here," she said, handing him a pen and the clipboard, which had a neat form on it. He took it, scribbled his signature down and passed it back, "thanks sir. Have a great night."

"You too," he said, brandishing his charming smile, and she smiled back before heading back to her barely visible van. He shut the door and picked up the stack of boxes, marched back to the couch and set them down beside him, letting himself fall into the welcoming pillows.

He dragged one of the boxes on the coffee table and opened it to reveal dusty old silver tableware, scratched and dented, worth about as much as a single shoe. He didn't mind though, because he liked the kitschy appeal. His house lacked personality at the moment, and he really did wish the grandfather clock had come along. He found a few old comics too, mostly of Spider-Man. He didn't find it very important, but these were in very solid condition. He'd have to do some research on their value.

He heard a big honk coming from outside before moving on to the next box, tossing the first one behind him. When he lifted the lids, he found a big set of books. Some of them were history books, one of the Great War, one that described the American Revolution. Some others revealed themselves to be cooking books, and he managed to let a little laughter slip by.

However, one of the last books had an unusual name to it, and it rang no bells in his head as to what it was. Blowing off the dust, he got another good look at it. Red cover with golden letters, nothing all too fancy and flashy in his opinion.

 _The Planes of the Netherrealm: A Study_

Nothing else was on the cover, and he flipped the book to see not much more written on the bottom of the back.

 _Written by Avalean Diatress, renowned researcher on phylogeny, particularly on the demons and its subspecies_

 _Author of_ Outworld and its Realms _and_ Stars of The World Beyond

Solomon couldn't put his finger on any of those titles, and he had never heard of this renowned researcher. Maybe he was culturally out of touch. Before he read it, he noticed an envelope on the bottom of the box. Putting the book with the rest, he picked it up, ripped it apart and opened up the letter within.

" _Dear Solomon,_

 _If you receive this, I have passed away. Naturally, it will be confusing as to why you've received a particular book in my collection. This isn't fiction on ramblings, my nephew. You'll be confused the first time you get it, but everything will become clear with time._

 _Yours truly,_

 _your uncle."_

The shirtless man decided his uncle had gone senile before he died. Or maybe he was just senile since birth, he couldn't remember. It had been a long while since he'd seen his uncle.

He heard another few knocks on the front door, a bit softer and slower this time. He picked himself up again, meandered over to the door and opened it to reveal the girl that brought him the boxes.

"Hello again, sir," she said, but her smile was awkward and her tone a bit unsure, "I've run into a problem, and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call my work?"

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," Solomon agreed, once again carrying his smile, and the girl nodded and skipped past him, "the phone's next to the television."

She walked over and eyed the pile of books and silverware, almost tripping over a box in the process. She looked around, a worried visage adorning her face, but Solomon waved her worries away. She darted over to the phone, while the hungry man walked over to his pizza and opened up the box, the smell penetrating his nostrils. His stomach growled again.

He took a slice and happily chomped down on it, but the enjoyment was cut short when he heard the girl shout. He'd missed the first part of her call, too caught up in simply eating.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, clearly distraught, "I'm sure I checked the fuel before leaving."

Another set of words from the other side came bellowing through.

"No sir, I'm sorry," she apologised, "I'll make sure it's set right, I'll-" but before she could continue, the other side went silent, only noise emanating from the phone. She sighed and walked over to Solomon, who had reached into one on the cabinets to fish out a bottle of whiskey. She tapped him on his shoulder, and she looked absolutely embarrassed to talk to him.

"Eh, sir," she began, "can I make another call to call a tow truck?"

"Run out of gas?" he guessed, and she smiled nervously, looking back at the ground to avoid his gaze, "Go ahead, I won't lose sleep over it."

She walked back to the phone and noticed a more than half-devoured pizza, weirdly impressed by his eating skills. While she called a tow truck, Solomon poured himself a glass of whiskey, while also grasping towards a small cigar box. She mumbled something about an address while he lit his newly acquired cigar with a zippo he'd grabbed from one of the drawers.

He walked back to the couch, not before eating another slice in a hurry, to see the girl hanging up the phone, relieved to say the least.

"Well, the tow truck will be here in an hour," she said, "so I'll just wait in the van and-"

"And go out in the rain?" Solomon said, his thumb pointing at the still poor weather, "No, you're better off in here, where it's warm and cosy. And I still have a slice of pizza left."

"Oh, I couldn't-" she started, once again cut off by the shirtless man.

"No worries, I won't mind," he assured her, "I've got a few things to sort out anyway, so relax while you're here. Flip through the channels, pick up one of the newspapers lying about."

She was uncomfortable at best, and he noticed. Maybe it was because a stranger was offering her refuge from the storm, which was a sure-fire way of being murdered and buried behind a home in the dead of night. Or maybe because he was shirtless, something that slipped his mind continuously. In any case, he'd at least put on a shirt to take the stress off of the girl. He managed to find a dry t-shirt hanging about, and when he came back, Solomon found her flipping through a cookbook.

"Cooking type?" he asked, and she turned around, much less stressed out than before, it seemed.

"No, my mum was," she explained, "always managed to cook up the best pastas."

A twinge of sadness reverberated through her voice.

"Why'd you get so many cookbooks?" she asked.

"Because _I_ am a cooking type," the man said, "just not today. Runs in the family"

"Well, what do you like to cook?" she asked, and he began with some kind of Asian dish, before running off about a tangent about where'd he'd travelled to, from here until Tokyo, he'd seen almost everything. In turn, he asked her what she had seen, and she talked about Europe, especially the Alps and Pyrenees. She was a big fan of climbing apparently, and more often than not, she would end up stuck, her friends having to help her back down.

The sudden sound of a tow truck rolling up caught her off guard, but it left him mostly unfazed.

"Guess I'm off now," she said, happier than before, "thanks for letting me sit out the wait in here."

Both got up to their feet, with him having a bit more issues.

"No problem," he said, "it was fun having you around."

She gave him a warm smile before heading out to the door, but not before snatching a slice of pizza to go along. She opened the door, waved goodbye and sprinted towards the tow truck. He was left alone, not even knowing her name, now pondering once again on the contents of the insane book, saving the best for last. He was also left with the short end of the stick; he was still hungry.

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fun fact: I want to die

I might actually update this story regularly, while my other story might finish when Cyberpunk 2077 rolls around. Please rate and review and give me a positive rating on Yelp.

\- The Coolest Man with Gucci accessoires


	3. Legacy

**I don't own anything of the Mortal Kombat universe except my own creations. All credits go towards Netherrealm Studios.**

* * *

The sun still stood magnificently high, rays of light cast down upon the roof, yet the rock was still cool when he set foot on it. He took a swig of the thin air, his lungs iced by the unexpected cold, or perhaps ash and fire now brimmed in his soul. He had one hand buried deep in his pocket, while the other stroked his sharp chin. From the edge, he could see the endless desert stretch out beyond the horizon.

Another interesting sight befell Solomon's eyes, as he spotted what appeared to be a small detachment of armour-clad demons, their halberds upright. It appeared they remained before the entrance, which he surmised was because someone else had already entered the premises. He didn't mind however, as he suspected many would be wary of new blood encroaching upon their territory.

From behind, he could hear heavy steps, iron clashing with stone, the pommel of the weapon striking the floor with each second step. He barely heard the dainty steps just trailing behind, but even then, the sound did not go by unnoticed.

"You step on hallowed ground, mortal," a deep, husky voice threatened, "and trespassers from the living world are met with severe punishment."

The well-dressed man only cackled, more or less entertained by hollow threats.

"My sweet child, I'm no trespasser," he said, turning around to face the two strangers, "I'm just, what shall I call it, a representative of new management."

He got a very good look at the two strangers. One was a fairly large, heavily armoured and armed demon, so well armoured he couldn't make out his face. Many bones and spikes covered his armour, and the heat made much of the iron glow red hot. The other, a woman, was surprisingly mundane. She resembled a secretary, dressed in a violet jacket with matching skirt, stopping halfway through her thighs, with a blue blouse underneath the jacket, revealing much cleavage. Her red framed glassed hid little of her yellow viper eyes, but her smile was endearing, almost charming.

"We dislike imposters," the demon continued his charade, "and I doubt you can challenge my claim to the leadership of this plane."

Solomon's grin grew exceptionally wide.

"So brash," the man said, "I almost find it imposing. Now, you and your _brute_ can leave, succubus. Before you harm yourselves."

He turned around, and without a second passing, he could feel hot iron wrapping around his shoulder. He peeked over to see the blade of the halberd, now with a clear chunk missing, one in the shape of his shoulder. With a lazy backhand, he smacked the demon on his helmet, which caused the brute to launch several dozen yards backward. The secretary effortlessly dodged the flying hunk of armour, her ebony hair mildly singed by the fire. The demon was now unconscious, and the woman spoke up.

"I did tell Gaal he would suffer a humiliating defeat," the succubus said, looking over at the heap of demon, "but I suppose wisdom is seldom heeded."

"That makes two of us," Solomon said, "from which I suspect you came here with different intentions."

"The farseers told of your coming," she explained, "your strength and cunning radiated from as far as the mortal plane you freed yourself from."

"Clearly, the memo was kept a secret," the man of taste replied, "and if this is the best response your master could come up with, I fear I have little use for him in the future."

"But what kind of future do you envision?" she asked, standing next to him now, "Because as I see it, all you have now is a desert, my Liege."

Solomon thought fort a short while before speaking up again.

"I read about your magnificent cities," he started, "have you?"

"I don't have that kind of time, my Lord," she said, but all he did was laugh.

"My dear, don't you know where we stand?" he asked, and she wore a look of confusion on her visage.

"We stand atop of Diablo's Keep, my Liege," she answered, "the last remaining bastion of a fallen god."

"An expected answer," Solomon said, "but still disappointing. I suppose time has afflicted your history."

"My Liege, what do you imply?" she asked, and once again, a broad grin plastered Solomon's face. He grab a hold of her shoulder and transmitted them downward in a whirlwind of flames, in front of the cohort of soldiers waiting at the gate. While they readied their weapons, the secretary signed to them to lower their arms as Solomon walked in between them.

He reached the sands, and with no extra hoopla or fancy lights, he heated a large part of the sand to astronomical levels, turning it to glass, before cooling it off to deathly temperatures. Beneath, the foggy glass revealed that beneath the keep was a stair that lead downwards from it. The secretary came up beside him, looking marginally impressed, but much more intrigued.

"It was revealed in tomes that Diablo wasn't some lonesome devil, sitting in a remote cave until some witless mortal agreed to a pact," he began, walking over the glass, the succubus following along, "In ages long gone, the city of Balda-ur thrived under his rule, with many exceptional individuals roaming the city. Infamous enchanters, merciless war chiefs, as diverse as they were legendary."

He continued to traverse the glass.

"The fall of their Lord quickly dug into their souls, relinquishing much of their skill and power over the years, allowing the fallen impostor god to take control," he continued his story, "but even with many of his servants dead, or having switched to the _winning_ side, his influence lingers, and his strength glows beyond the borders."

He finally reached sand again, with the secretary remaining at the glass.

"After much experimenting, my soul has become attuned to this plane and its secrets," he said, "the secrets my new accomplice now happily whispers to me."

The succubus had a glimmer of ambition spark in her eyes, and he struck.

"I plan on building a new Legion, a new world, where my power will reach beyond the known galaxy," he said, "where Balda-ur will tower over all metropolises. Where the mortal men and woman will bend before the power of an enigmatic, but ever-present renewed Diablo."

After he had finished his compact speech, the secretary adjusted her glasses.

"My Liege, I stand at your side," she said, "but what should we commence with first?"

Solomon pondered the thought. He imagined digging the city from beneath the sands would take extraordinary amounts of people and tools, something this desolate wasteland wouldn't provide. To achieve his goal, he would need the force of many more. And he knew exactly how to start.

"In time, my dear."

* * *

PlEaSe DoN't ToUcH mE

Also, after two chapters now no followers, reviews or favourites yet? Man, I ain't got the touch no more. So please, favourite, crush that like button, seek help for ligma, and have a great day.

PS im nut updating umtil I get five good revoiws!


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